


smokes under bleachers

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fighting, First Kiss, Fluff, Gay, High School, Humor, Language, M/M, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8531170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: You came for a smoke in my secret exclusive drinking spot and a teacher heard us fighting over it and now we're trapped in a very small shed together and I hate you but you're also really attractive and oh no this is a horrible situation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> idk i guess i just have a thing for murphy thinking he owns things and bellamy taking them but this was fun to write
> 
> anyways im lame this is lame please enjoy. or not. you do you my guy

 

It’s the buzzing of his violet fingertips, the tingling of his rouge-tinted lips. It’s the warmth pooling in his gut, the only familiar thing he’s ever known. It’s the pale streams of sunlight piercing through his syrup-colored glass, the wholeness he feels with the slender neck of a bottle in his grip. It’s the kiss of the foul-smelling rim, the only thing he knows how to love.

It’s poison, but he likes it.

Murphy rolls his shoulders, tension falling away as the clouds move from in front of the sun to his mind, and the light crisscrosses through slits in the bleachers above him to melt over his loose limbs in soft, yellowish streams.

It’s a Tuesday in November, the grass is brittle from the cold and Murphy’s been failing English for a few weeks anyhow, so it’s now that he spends his third period downing his second cheap beer of the morning. He’s propped up against a beam, legs folded and dull bottle tucked between them as he pauses, heavy footsteps approaching startling him into a statue-like panic. If he gets caught again, he’s fucked.

He snakes an arm around him to plant the bottle stealthily behind the beam, and crosses his arms over his legs as a dark figure manifests at the opposite end of the structure, hoping to appear casual and a bit less suspicious if he’s noticed.

It’s then that a heavy cloud shifts from the sun, and those soft yellow beams return, illuminating the both of them.

The raven-haired boy is just another student. Murphy clears his throat, making his annoyance apparent. “Seat’s taken.”

The intruder jerks upright, startled, and reversing his choice to sit by a distant beam. “What?”

The smaller brunet grunts in displeasure, gathering his bottle from behind him and raising it to his lips. “I said, get lost, pal. Spot’s been claimed.”

The figure moves closer, curious and inspecting his surroundings. As he approaches, Murphy can’t help but let out a small, strangled gasp. Tan, freckled skin and dark curls, brown leather on his arms and dark blue jeans shredded to nearly nothing. He’s gorgeous. A true specimen.

But he’s also encroaching on private property, which cannot be tolerated, even for the prettiest of faces.

“You can’t claim the entire bleachers.”

“You’re welcome to go up top.”

The boy blinks, and much to Murphy’s frustration, lowers himself to the ground a few yards away and plops against a beam of his own, seeming satisfied and looking absolutely permanent, somehow.

The brunet watches, bottle closed tightly between bloodless, freezing fingertips as the boy flicks open a pack of smokes and lights one, placing it between wine-colored lips and pocketing the rest once more.

Murphy finds himself entranced, albeit a mouthful of insults. With each exhale, the boy gives off a swirling billow of smoke that the sun snakes right through, golden steam. With each exhale, the boy makes art.

“Want one?”

Murphy flushes from his neck to the tips of his ears, caught staring. “Fuck off. I like _breathing._ ”

The boy quirks up an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Your liver disagrees,” he quips, nodding his head at the bottle between Murphy’s legs as he huffs out another cloud of thick gray smoke. The smaller boy practically growls under his breath, conflicting feelings of anger and attraction both stirring around in his stomach, battling for the upperhand. “You’re on my territory, y’know. I’d watch myself," Murphy threatens, knitting his brows and turning his chin up in attempt to look a little more menacing.

And it appears that with each of the brunet's words, Smokes only grows more comfortable right where he’s at, as demonstrated by the stretching out of his legs and the cracking of his neck. “Is that meant to scare me off? We’re both on school property. You’ve no jurisdiction here, I’m afraid.”

Murphy holds up his bottle at that, his filter growing increasingly dulled as he points the neck of it at the intruder. “It’s _implied_ jurisdiction!” he crows, and the smirk on the other student’s face only stretches wider, prouder.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

Murphy fumbles then, bottle slipping from his fingers slightly in his now-clammy grip. This guy thinks he’s all bark, no bite. Motivated by adrenaline and too much pride, jumps to his feet, and the freckled boy rises quickly but more gracefully in tune, not keen on getting stomped into the grass like his cigarette ash if the scrawny drunk under the bleachers turns out to be even crazier than he’s already proved himself to be.

He throws a punch, clipping his match on the jaw, who sighs, realizing he might have to actually fight the kid. Murphy stares back with wide eyes as the former glares, a lone dark curl falling over his eyes. He feigns confidence in the face of a far more muscular and far less intoxicated opponent, and hopes the boy doesn’t notice his uneasiness. “Makin’ a move to leave yet?”

_“Try me.”_

Murphy noticeably twitches, nervous. Quick to anger, not big on beatings. But he can’t back off now.

He places a hand on his chest and shoves, hard. The boy stumbles back ever-so-slightly, but then snatches up Murphy’s hand with lightning speed and presses the end of his amber glow against the boy’s milky skin. A low move, but it always works. Murphy howls.

_“FUCK!”_

The other man swears he hears a flock of birds take off.

“Who’s out here?” a voice calls, new and unfamiliar. The taller man clamps a hand over Murphy’s open mouth, who finds himself again frozen in fear. “It’s a teacher,” he whispers, gruff and low in the brunet’s pink-tinted ear, before tugging him backwards.

Murphy attempts to pry the offending meaty hand away, swinging his mostly-empty bottle around wildly, but never making contact. He’s too shocked to make a sound, and stumbles over his own feet as Smokes drags him off towards an unknown direction.

Soon enough, he’s shoved into the dark, dank-smelling equipment shed like a broken track hurdle, and Smokes follows quickly behind, closing the creaking door after them. There’s literally no space for arm maneuvering, and only a foot between them if they move to opposite sides of the shed, which they don’t, since the other guy intends on peering through the slats of wood and watching whatever nosy superior that had appeared at the bleachers wander aimlessly beneath them in search of class-skippers such as themselves.

Murphy grumbles, both furious at and grateful for the pretty excellent hiding place and quick thinking of his shedmate. He inspects the circle burn on his knuckle with watering eyes, more humiliated than in pain.

“I’m sorry, but you asked for it,” his attacker comments, watching him with inexplicably softened eyes.

“Whatever,” Murphy mumbles almost tearfully, suddenly all too aware of their closeness. “If we get caught, it’s on you.”

“You were the one who screamed like a little girl, I’m the reason we found a place to hide,” he whispers in response, in that same low rumble that makes Murphy’s stomach flutter, despite his hatred.

He resorts to the silent treatment, stuffing his trembling hands in his pockets as the other man breathes warmly on his own and shifts his legs to keep warm. The shed is much cooler, what without the sun on them anymore.

“You’re kind of cute when you pout like that,” he comments between huffs of hot air, and Murphy blushes all over, thankful that he can’t see the unwanted coloring. “Shut the fuck up.”

The taller boy chuckles softly, a single soft line of light from a crack in the shed door highlighting his crinkled chestnut eyes. Murphy thinks he might vomit.

“I’m Bellamy, by the way. You?”

Murphy blinks, startled by the suddenness of it, and unexpected kindness behind it. _“Bellamy,”_ he tries, rolling it over his tongue and past his lips experimentally. It’s... nice.

“You too? It’s not a very common name,” Bellamy says, quick and easy, and Murphy finds himself elbowing him in the side with a soft laugh, as if they were old friends. “Murphy,” he breathes. “I’m Murphy.”

He blinks up to the boy with the pretty hair and golden skin, and finds him staring down with a smile ghosting his lips. “Mind if I get a sip of that?” he asks, if not states, and gently peels the sloshing bottle from Murphy’s frozen fingers. “Your hands are cold,” Bellamy says between gulps of the last of Murphy’s shitty beer, to which Murphy responds, “No shit, Sherlock,” and cringes immediately. 2010 wants it's insults back, Murphy.

He's shaken from his thoughts as the former traps one of his pale and purplish hands under a larger one, guiding it to the pocket of Bellamy’s own jacket. The inside of his coat is lined with wool and admittedly warm, no matter how much of a child Murphy feels by keeping it there.

“This is weird,” Murphy whispers, a whining lilt to his voice. Bellamy shrugs, downing another mouthful of alcohol. “You’re weird.”

“Comeback of the century. How ever will I recover?” Murphy finds himself teasing, feeling oddly pleased by the pointless banter.

“I think I already burned you pretty good, in my defense,” Bellamy retorts, easing Murphy’s hand from his pocket and circling a thumb soothingly over the wound mark from his cigarette. The brunet flushes, no longer pleased. Or is he? He isn’t sure, but he knows that this... this is far too intimate for a gym equipment shed with a very sketchy stranger.

So, naturally, he panics. “I think- I think the teacher is probably gone now,” he says, voice hurried and high as he tears his hand away and wipes the clamminess of it on the outside of his denim-clad thigh.

“We should stay a little longer, just to be safe,” Bellamy argues, logical and seemingly unaffected by Murphy’s abrupt rejection of his advances. “If I get caught again, I’m fucked,” he adds, mirroring the other boy’s earlier thoughts, and Murphy realizes he makes a fair point. They should at least wait for whoever it was to be back inside and far away from the field completely.

But he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Can you scoot over?”

“Not really, no,” the larger boy huffs, shifting in a failed attempt at giving Murphy some space, and finds himself tripping over a forgotten football helmet and slipping forward. Murphy’s life flashes before his eyes.

He is presented by the universe with two choices:

1\. Let him fall. The entire shelf likely collapses due to this _gigantor_ of a teenager not having the balance to match his size. Their cover is blown and they both end up expelled.  
2\. Save the boy. Be forced to touch a very beautiful man and get all sweaty and red-faced and disgusting about it and maybe be crushed under the weight of said beautiful man.

It’s an obvious choice, and yet he hesitates.

Life is garbage.

Bellamy, stumbling over the equipment scattered on the floor, reaches out in a slight panic for something to hold onto, and ends up snatching a fistful of greasy hair.

And he fucking uses it.

Murphy winces, hissing through gritted teeth as Bellamy pulls himself away from the wall and back to full height with the brunet’s locks between his huge stupid fingers. “Fuck!”

“Sorry!” Bellamy nearly cries, voice faltering from that weirdly attractive but super annoying gruff drawl for the first time. It humanizes him, and gives Murphy a little confidence, strangely.

He decides to use his perfectly functional arms to steady his klutz of a shedmate, righting him and snatching the clanking bottle from his now untrustworthy hands.

And in regard to said hands, they remain threaded through Murphy’s hair, who looks up with a brow raised in annoyance and a finger pointed towards the offending limb. He finds his frustration melting as Bellamy stands there, eyes dark and filled with... something. Lips parted, shoulders slouched.

Bellamy’s humiliation, in turn, fades completely at the sight before him. Bleacher Boy’s hair tangled around his fingertips, his pale, angular, blushing features highlighted by dim shed-slat light, drooping eyes and lips looking impossibly soft.

It was then that the taste of cheap alcohol in his mouth grew stronger, a pair of lips covering his own, rough and powerful at first, and then with light uncertainty. So inherently Murphy.

“Sorry,” he whispers, looking openly and uncharacteristically bashful and afraid as he shuts his eyes and shuffles backwards, pressing himself against the wall of the shed. “I’ve never-”

“C’mere,” Bellamy insists, voice throaty and deep and full of that same something as his eyes, something so unfamiliar to Murphy that it both entrances and scares the shit out of him. But he takes an inviting step forward anyhow, and finds himself pulled flush against a warm body and enveloped by it’s arms, a second half to a tangled web of limbs. Hot breath and a scraping of teeth, the welcoming encouragement of a tongue, and then another. Shifting hands and heavy sighs.

It’s the buzzing of his violet fingertips, the tingling of his rouge-tinted lips. It’s the warmth pooling in his gut, the only familiar thing he’s ever known. It’s the pale streams of sunlight piercing through syrup-colored slats, the wholeness he feels with the the neck of another in his grip. It’s that same foul-smelling kiss, the only thing he knows how to love.

It’s poison, but he likes it.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was GARBAGE but i really just wanted to write about murphy trying to act tough and ending up getting his first kiss in a stanky equipment shed im sorry
> 
> also just for the hoots: they end up meeting under the bleachers and kissing in the shed all the time and then eventually start dating and murphy stops drinking bc he gets everything he likes about drinking from kissing bellamy and i personally think thats very cute but thats just me and because ive thought about this fic way too much for it to be as wimpy as it turned out


End file.
